“Well, we kindly called everyone who had booked you for the next nine months and let them know your new location. Most of them chose to reschedule at your new location—that’s why your weekends are full for the next several months.” His ‘let me dumb this down to your level’ tone is annoying. “What? You thought you’d be sitting on your ass? Like I’d let you. You have to make me money.”

“You could’ve given me a heads-up,” I growl, maybe a little too loud, because my voice carries through the shop. My fingers tighten around the phone, pulse kicking up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blythe shift.

Not much. Barely noticeable. But I catch it.

She stiffens, fingers curling around the hem of her sleeve, knuckles white. Like she’s bracing for something. No. It’s more like she’s used to bracing, waiting for someone to hit her.

Unease settles in my chest, heavy and dreading.

Fuck.

I wasn’t even looking at her, wasn’t directing my frustration at her, but it doesn’t matter. She reacts anyway—instinctive, automatic. Like muscle memory.

I exhale, forcing my voice to level out. “Fine. I’ll figure it out and even check on the clients to make sure they’re really showing up. Thanks.” I end the conversation.

I do this for her because if not, I would’ve given him a piece of my mind.

After taking several deep breaths to calm the fuck down, I explain to Blythe how the system works, walking her through the client list, showing her how to confirm appointments for the weekend. I tell her to call everyone, make sure they’re still coming. By tomorrow, I’ll have a better system in place—one where she won’t have to make phone calls. Just texts. I also have her check the shop’s email because, apparently, we have one connected to our website. News to me.

By noon, I ask her to grab some food from the diner down the street. “Get something for yourself too.” I pull some cash from my wallet and hold it out.

Blythe hesitates.

For a second, I think she’s going to refuse. Her fingers twitch, her lips part—then she nods, takes the money, and slips out the door.

I shake off the strange energy from earlier and focus on the list of confirmed appointments. A few names stand out—ones I wasn’t expecting. Then the hotel calls. They’re fully booked. Obviously, I have to ask, ‘Why the fuck do I care,’ right? Well, apparently, everyone’s in town for me.

What the fuck?

By the time Blythe comes back, something’s off.

She’s quieter. Not in a normal, I’m-just-tired way. It’s something else. Something she’s hiding behind that carefully neutral expression she wears like armor.